Rain tapped softly against the window as Elara sat alone in her small apartment. The hum of the city outside was distant, muffled—like a world that had long forgotten her. Her fingers hovered above the keys of her typewriter, untouched for weeks now. Grief had frozen her inspiration. She hadn't written a single word since the night her sister died.
A knock echoed from the hallway.
Not a visitor.
Not this late.
Elara stood slowly, heart thudding. When she opened the door, no one was there.
Only a single envelope lay on the floor. No stamp. No address. Just her name—Elara—in black ink, written in a trembling, uneven hand.
She picked it up. The paper smelled faintly of smoke and something else—decay?
Inside was a single sheet:
> "The first death was no accident. The truth is buried, and your silence made it easier.
Find the hidden word in her final story.
You have six days. – S"
Her hands trembled.
No sender. No explanation.
Just a chilling message... and a signature—S.
It had begun.Elara closed the door and locked it, her fingers still shaking as they clutched the letter. Her breath was shallow, quick. She stared at the words again, as if reading them a second time would change their meaning.
"The first death was no accident..."
Her mind reeled.
Her sister, Liora, had died three months ago. The police ruled it an accident—carbon monoxide poisoning in a hotel room. No signs of foul play. No suspects. Just another tragic case lost in the noise of the city.
But Elara had never truly believed it. Liora was careful, meticulous. She didn't make deadly mistakes.
And now this letter.
She sat on the edge of her couch and read the second line over and over: "Find the hidden word in her final story."
Her final story?
Elara stood abruptly, heading to the bookshelf. Liora had been a novelist, just like her—but darker, sharper. Her last manuscript had been left in Elara's care. Unpublished. Unfinished. Untouched since the funeral.
She pulled it down. The black cover felt colder than she remembered.
She opened the first page, flipping through with wide eyes. No title. No chapters. Just dense, handwritten text. The style was cryptic—riddled with metaphors, dream sequences, and dark imagery. It was the kind of writing that made your skin crawl, even without a warning letter attached.
Somewhere in here was a word—hidden, according to "S."
But who was S?
Someone who knew Liora? Someone who wanted to reveal the truth—or play a sick game?
Elara's phone buzzed on the table, jolting her from her thoughts.
Unknown number.
She hesitated... then answered.
No voice. Just silence.
Then a whisper.
"You have six days, Elara."
Click.
The line went dead.
Elara stared at her screen, her pulse thundering in her ears. Whoever this was, they weren't bluffing. They were watching her. They knew where she lived. They knew her sister. And they had just pulled her into a game she didn't understand.
She looked back at the manuscript in her lap. Pages of secrets. Clues. Maybe lies.
And one hidden word.
Elara didn't know what it was yet, but she knew one thing with terrifying certainty:
Someone had killed her sister.
And now they wanted her to find out why.
Elara leaned back, the manuscript heavy in her hands. Her eyes scanned the words, looking not for meaning, but for patterns—anything that might feel deliberate, strange, wrong. But every paragraph seemed just as Liora had always written: poetic, raw, layered with riddles only she could unravel.
But Elara wasn't just a sister. She was once Liora's editor, her confidante, the only one who could decode the cryptic heart of her stories.
She pulled a yellow sticky note from the inside cover. Liora's handwriting.
> "No one listens to screams written in silence."
Elara swallowed hard. She remembered the day that note was written. Liora had been quiet for weeks, pale and distant. She said she was working on a final book—something important, something personal. But she never got the chance to finish it. And now it felt like she'd been trying to tell Elara something all along.
A memory flashed.
Three weeks before the funeral. Liora had come to her door, drenched in rain, clutching a torn page from her journal. Her eyes were wild.
"If something happens to me," she had whispered, "don't trust the ending. Find the beginning."
Back then, Elara had thought it was grief talking—exhaustion, maybe. But now… it sounded like a warning.
The knock on the door.
The letter.
The whisper over the phone.
Elara stood and drew the curtains closed, heart pounding. A sliver of paranoia crept into her spine. Were they watching her now? From where?
She grabbed her notebook and flipped to a blank page, writing down everything:
Letter from S
"Find the hidden word in her final story"
Six days
Phone call—whispered voice
Then she circled the phrase "don't trust the ending—find the beginning."
A clue? A code?
She turned to the manuscript's first page again. The opening line read:
> "Death does not knock. It slips in when you forget to lock the door."
Her blood ran cold.
Was that just a metaphor… or a message?
Suddenly, a thud echoed from the hallway outside.
Elara froze.
Another sound—soft, deliberate. Like paper sliding under a door.
She approached slowly, every step measured. A second envelope lay on the floor.
This one was smaller. Crimson red. No name. Just a symbol—two intersecting lines, like a broken hourglass.
Inside, only one sentence was written:
> "Five days remain. Time is not your ally."
No signature.
Just the silence of the city pressing in again.
Elara clutched the red envelope tightly. Her instincts screamed that this wasn't just a game. It was personal. Someone out there believed she was responsible for what happened to Liora—or worse, wanted her to suffer the same fate.
She didn't know the rules of this game yet.
But she was going to learn.
And she would find the truth—before the sixth letter arrived.